Sometimes he was thinking, trying to struggle with the problems that still loomed over him: the fleet coming against them, Jane’s shutoff date, the Descolada’s constant efforts to destroy the humans of Lusitania, Warmaker’s plan to spread the Descolada throughout the galaxy, and the grim situation within the city, now that the Hive Queen kept constant watch over the fence and their grim penance had them all tearing at the walls of their own houses.
And sometimes his mind was almost devoid of thought, as he stood or sat or lay in the grass, too numb to weep, her face passing through his memory, his lips and tongue and teeth forming her name, pleading with her silently, knowing that even if he made a sound, even if he shouted, even if he could make her hear his voice, she wouldn’t answer him.
Novinha.